HetaliAvenue Q
by ClassyAsBollocks
Summary: Hetalia characters re-enact their own slightly edited versions of Avenue Q scenes, tackling the touchy subjects of racism, sexuality, pornography, and useless college degrees using the power of song! First up: Denmark and Norway perform Nicky and Rod's classic "If You Were Gay".
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own either Hetalia or Avenue Q. I do, however, own a brass lamp. Whee! On with the singing!**

Lukas was sitting on an overstuffed chair in the living room of his apartment, a book in his lap and a slightly less dour expression than usual on his face."Ah, an afternoon alone with my favourite book "A History of Norse Mythology." "No annoying Dane to bother me. How could it get any better than this?"

At that very moment Matthias burst in through the door, effectively ruining his day. "HEJ LUKAS!"

Lukas sighed. "Hei Matthias. I thought you were supposed to be in the hospital for another week recovering from the skull fracture that you got due to that drunken car accident?"

Matthias threw back his head and laughed his usual annoying laugh. "Ahaha! I got better faster than the doctor thought! But, you'll never guess what happened to me today on the train!"

Lukas rolled his eyes and opened up his book. "That's fine. I really don't care," he said blankly.

Matthias, undeterred by his friend's apathy, continued on with his story. "This guy was smiling and talking to me..."

" Incredible," Lukas deadpanned. "Now get out of my house."

"He was being real friendly. I think he might've been coming on to me. Actually, I know that he was. He squeezed my ass and start whispering something in French. I didn't understand most of what he was saying, but I think I caught the words "throbbing" and "manhole". I think he might've thought that I was gay!" Matthias finished, sounding rather proud of the fact.

Lukas quirked an eyebrow at him. "Or maybe he was just a pervert willing to do anything that has a pulse," he suggested. He thought for a moment. "Actually, I take back that statement. He was definitely a pervert willing to do anything regardless of whether or not it has a pulse. There, the mystery has been solved. Now get out and let me read in peace."

Matthias grinned a shit-eating grin that made Lukas want to strangle him. "Hey, no need to get defensive about it Lukas," he smirked.

"Er...The only thing that I'm concerned about here is the fact that you don't know how to take a hint. I thought that my bisexuality was confirmed years ago." Figuring that the matter was settled, Lukas turned around in an attempt to ignore the Dane. That effort lasted all of fifteen seconds before he said something stupid again, thus rekindling Lukas' annoyance.

"Huh, did you say something Lukas?" Matthias asked cheerfully.

Lukas threw him a disgusted look. "You have the attention span of a sack of hammers."

Matthias leapt in front of him and struck a pose. "I think this situation calls for a song!" He declared loudly.

Lukas pinched the bridge of his nose. He was definitely going to need lots of ibuprofen after this. "Oh for God's sake..." he mumbled.

"If you were gay, that'd be okay! I mean 'cus hey, I'd like you anyway! Because you see, if it were me, I would feel free to say that I was gay! (But I'm not gay!)" Matthias sang.

"Everyone knows that you're a switch-hitter as well Matthias. Now can you please shut the hell up and let me read?" His request went unfulfilled.

"If you were queer!"

"You do realize that queer actually means strange, right? In fact, gay originally meant happy. How they came to be associated with homosexuality is a mystery to me."

" I'd still be here!"

"Oh joy. I feel so validated. If being solely gay meant that you'd go away, I'd start fellating a man while wearing a miniskirt right here in this living room."

"Year after year!"

"That's what I'm afraid of. Haven't I dealt with your idiocy enough?"

"Because you're dear to me!"

"Uh-huh. Because _that _wasn't gay at all."

"And I know that you!"

"Am seriously considering caving your skull in with a meat cleaver?"

"Would accept me too!"

"I already don't accept you. You being gay wouldn't make me respect you any less, mostly because I have no respect for you at all to begin with."

"If I told you today "Hey, guess what? I'm gay!" (But I'm not gay!) I'm happy just being with you!"

"How ironic, seeing as how I'm always unhappy with you. It's like we're yin and yang here."

"So what should it matter to me what you do in bed with guys?"

"You've already seen what I do in bed with people of both sexes, what with you walking in on me all of the time. Seriously, how do you keep getting in here anyway?"

"If you were gay, I'd shout hooray!"

"That cracked skull really did not do you any favours..."

"And here I'd stay!"

"I reiterate; that is exactly what I'm afraid of."

"But I wouldn't get in your way!"

"You already did. Four times this week, in fact. The Icelandic boy on Monday, the Belarusian girl on Wednesday, etc...You're a cockblock and I hate you for it."

"You can count on me to always be beside you every day, to tell you it's okay! You were just born that way! And as they say, it's in your DNA if you're gay!"

"That's just a theory. There is actually no solid scientific proof for that as of yet."

"If you were gay!"

As soon as Matthias belted out the last line, Lukas slammed his book shoot in irritation before rounding on him. "That last line was horribly timed," he said. "You just ruined the entire flow of this already hideously executed song. And you sing like you're being sodomized by Satan's barbed penis. Now that I've destroyed your self-esteem, get out," he added, his right eye twitching slightly.

" Huh?" Matthias said blankly.

Lukas stared incredulously at the tall, spiky-haired man for a good two minutes before throwing his book at the man's face and storming off, presumably to drown his rage in a combination of beer and pain killers.

Matthias shrugged, nonplussed at his unfavourable reaction. "I thought I sounded pretty good." He bent down and picked up the book that had just been bounced off his face, reading the title. "Ooh, I love this one!" He said. With that, he settled himself in Lukas' abandoned chair and opened it up to the first page.

"Too bad Lukas isn't around to enjoy this book," Matthias sighed. "It seems like the kind that he'd like. I wonder what made him storm off anyway? Oh well." He shrugged.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: First of all, I'd like to thank to thank Fluteorwrite for their helpful warning of the script format that I employed for my first chapter being against the rules. This has been remedied. So, thank you very much Fluteorwrite and no, you will not have to sell your books, for the creeper at the train station was indeed France. You have my eternal gratitude, for what it's worth. Which isn't much. All right, now that's over: I don't own Hetalia or Avenue Q, which is obvious, because if I did, I'd be rolling around making money angels this very moment. Also ****,****upon request of a one Myrna Maeve, here's a Hetalian performance of Avenue Q's "Everyone's a Little Bit Racist." Enjoy people!**

Gilbert threw a furtive, sideways stare at Elizaveta, who was rapidly flipping through a gay erotic novel and spurting blood from both of her nostrils. He took notice of her light brown hair and emerald green eyes. Now that he thought about it, she sort of looked like...

"Hey, Liz?" He asked. No answer; she was too busy reading about shaved-balled, androgynously sexy men buttfucking one another to hear him. Gilbert rolled his eyes and snatched the book, titled "Pink Cheeks and Brown Eyes" out of her hands before tossing it out of the conveniently open window.

Elizaveta wiped the blood leaking from her nose and glared at him. "What was that for?" She demanded. "I was just about to get to the part where Paris was spreading apart Ashton's-

Gilbert held up a hand to silence her. "No Liz. Just no. I don't want to hear about butt pirates swabbing each other's poop decks. But, I _do _have a question for you."

"Well, what is it?" Elizaveta demanded, still sore at the fact that he'd thrown out her novel.

"You know how that guy Toris from upstairs has brown hair and green eyes?" Gilbert asked her.

Elizaveta folded her arms across her chest. "Uh-huh."

Gilbert ran a hand through his silvery hair, looking hesitant. He didn't want to get a frying pan to the face for this. "Well, you have brown hair and green eyes too."

"And?" Elizaveta said testily.

"So, you know, you two sorta look alike," Gilbert trailed off.

Elizaveta frowned. "What are you implying, Gil?"

The albino teen took a deep breath. "Areyouguysrelated?" He said quickly.

Elizaveta tossed her head indignantly. "What?" She shrieked. "Gilbert, you idiot! Just because two people have the same hair and eye colour does _not _mean that they're related! I'm Hungarian and Toris is Lithuanian, and they're not the same thing!" She narrowed her eyes at him. "I find that racist."

Gilbert glared back at her. "Well sor-ry!" He snapped. "I was just asking! Geeze, why don't you go clear the sand outta your vagina before you queef out a pearl, Liz?" He added, earning himself a smack to the back of his head. "Bitch," Gilbert mumbled under his breath.

Fortunately, Liz either didn't hear him or just chose to ignore that last remark. "Well, it's a touchy subject," she grumbled. "I've been asked if I'm related to the Greek guy with all of the cats from across the hall, the Spanish guy with the tomato fetish who lives on the third floor, and now Toris! And why? Because we all happen to have brown hair and green eyes! Never mind the fact that we all have different skin tones and accents, no, we must all be from the same race because we have the same hair and eye colours!" She was breathing heavily by the time she was done, as though she'd just run a marathon, or had a long, mind-blowing sex session.

Gilbert had the decency to look slightly sheepish. "All right, all right." He sighed and waved his hands at her in a placating manner. "Sorry. I guess that was kinda racist," he admitted.

Elizaveta looked mollified, although she couldn't help but to throw a final remark in. "I should say so," she said sternly. "You ought to be much more careful when you're discussing the sensitive subject of race."

Gilbert sputtered. "Liz, you fucking hypocrite!"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Elizaveta demanded, looking ready to rip his dick off and use it to stir her drink.

"What about that special club you told me about? You know, the one for Hungarian dance?" Gilbert drawled.

"What about it?"

"Well, could me or Luddy join?"

"Tch, hell no. It's _Hungarian _dance, dumbass."

"Aha! You see?" Gilbert crowed triumphantly. "Now that I've made my point, I believe that this situation calls for some musical showboating." With that, he leapt up on the table, pulled Elizaveta up beside him and spun her around so that she was facing him.

"You're a little bit racist!" He sang.

Elizaveta grinned. She did love Broadway... "Well, you're a little bit too!"

"I guess we're both a little bit racist!"

"Admitting it is not an easy thing to do!"

"But I guess it's true!"

"Between me and you! I think..."

At that point, the two of them grasped one another's hands, jumped down from the desk and began to dance a sort of can-can while singing in unison.

"Everyone's a little bit racist sometimes! Doesn't mean we go around committing hate crimes! Unless they're against Russians!" Gilbert threw in. Elizaveta rolled her eyes and grinned before they both began to sing again.

"Look around and you will find! No one's really colour blind! Maybe it's a fact we all should face! Everyone makes judgments...Based on race!"

Gilbert smirked at Elizaveta before spinning and dipping her so that her hair brushed against the floor. "So, you're not racist enough so that you wouldn't want five meters of Prussian in you later tonight, right?" He asked, waggling his eyebrows at her.

Elizaveta shoved his chest playfully. "Prussian? Don't you mean German? Last I heard, Prussia was dissolved and is now East Berlin."

Gilbert gaped at her. "You little bitch," he gasped.

Elizaveta merely smirked at him. "Can't handle the truth, _German_? Oh yeah, and five meters? More like five inches, if that. Huge penises are more of an African thing, I think."

"Okay, let's not go there frau," Gilbert said. "Let's just get back to the singing, huh?"

"Fine teenie-weenie," Elizaveta quipped.

And once again, the two of them began to sing.

"Everyone's a little bit racist,"

"Today!"

" So, everyone's a little bit racist!"

"Okay!"

"Ethnic jokes might be uncouth,"

"But you laugh because"

"They're based on truth!"

"Don't take them as"

"Personal attacks!"

"Everyone enjoys them..."

"So relax!"

Gilbert leaned against the wall, looking immensely proud of himself. "Stop me if you've heard this one, Liz," he said.

"All right," Elizaveta agreed.

"Okay, so there's a plane going down, and there's only one parachute," Gilbert continued. "And there's a rabbi, a priest-

"And a black guy!" Elizaveta laughed.

Just at that moment, Angelique, the foreign exchange student from Seychelles popped in unannounced through the apartment door. The expression on her face was a combination of disappointment and anger. Mostly anger. Slamming the fish that she always carried around with her onto the table, she turned towards the two of them with a hand on her hip while simultaneously snapping her fingers.

"Mm-hm," she said. "I thought you were better than this, Elizaveta. Sure, I expected Gilbert to be a secret neo-Nazi, but you? Telling black jokes...You ought to be ashamed of yourselves!"

"Uhm..." Elizaveta muttered, looking embarrassed.

Gilbert, however merely rolled his eyes and shot her the bird. "Eh, pull the spear outta your ass and use it to bag yourself a lion, or whatever it is you do for fun in Africa, Angelique," he said. "You were acting like the stereotypical sassy black woman just now anyway. I mean, snapping your fingers while mm-hming? Seriously? Why don't you just change your name to Shaneequa? And in case you haven't noticed, people here in the U.S. tell black jokes all of the time, so quit your bitching."

Angelique crossed her arms across her chest. "I don't."

Gilbert shook his head at her naivety. "Uh-dur. Of course _you _don't. You're black. But, you just said that you expected me to be a neo-Nazi, and I'm willing to bet that it's because I'm Prussian. That's pretty damn racist, if I do say so myself. And besides, I've heard you tell plenty of Polack jokes, so suck it loser!"

Angelique smiled slightly. "Well, how can I _not_?" She said. "I mean, have you _seen _that Polish guy who works at the bodega down the street? He's a total dumbass! Hell, his entire family is composed of dumbasses. All of them together definitely couldn't screw in a light bulb...God, they would probably fail blood tests."

Gilbert grinned toothily at her. "Oh, and what you just said doesn't seem a little bit racist?"

Angelique's face turned thoughtful. "Well damn. I guess you're right," she admitted.

"Of course I am," Gilbert said, nodding sagely. "I'm always right because I am awesome. Now that we've confirmed my awesomeness, join us in song."

Angelique smiled and twirled next to them. "Okay!"

"You're a little bit racist!" Elizaveta sang.

"Well you're a little bit too!" Angelica chimed.

"We're all a little bit racist!" Gilbert belted out.

"I think that I would have to agree with you!" –Angelique

"We're glad you do!" –Gilbert and Elizaveta

"It's sad but true! Everyone's a little bit racist-All right." –Angelique

"All right!" –Gilbert

"All right!" –Elizaveta

"All right! Bigotry has never been exclusively white!" –Angelique

And now, they were all singing together, their voices beautifully harmonizing in song the truth that they all indeed had their prejudices. So touching...

"If we all could just admit!"

"That we are racist a little bit,"

"Even though we all know,"

"That it's wrong,"

"Maybe it would help us,"

"Get along!"

The three of them paused for a breather, beaming at one another. "Jesus Christ, I feel good!" Gilbert declared while scratching his balls. "Man, I've been waiting forever to do that," he added, ignoring the disgusted looks on the girls' faces.

Angelique decided to lessen the awkwardness. "Ah, Jesus. Now there was a fine, upstanding black man!" Her attempt fell on its ass and instead triggered a shitstorm from a disagreeing Elizaveta.

"Uhm," Elizaveta began tentatively, "I'm pretty sure that Jesus was white."

"No, He was definitely black," Angelique said, looking quite sure of herself.

Gilbert jumped in before Elizaveta could get the younger woman in a full-Nelson and toss her through their sixth-story window. "Ladies, ladies! Jesus is Jewish!" He said.

"Oh yeah..."

They all began to laugh it off, but their laughter turned to screams of horror when their burly Russian neighbour Ivan poked his head into their apartment. "Privet, comrades!" He said cheerfully. "What are you talking about?"

"Racism, you dirty drunken Commie," Gilbert sneered, pushing Elizaveta behind him and giving Ivan a dirty look.

The large Russian man was totally nonplussed by his aggressive posturing and simply smiled. "Oh, that sounds very interesting," he said.

"IVAN! If you're going to be my roommate, you take lecycuraburs instead of standing around chatting, aru!" Yao, Ivan's roommate/suspected fuck buddy shouted from down the hall.

"Kesesesese! The fuck are lecycuraburs? Some new strain of herpes?" Gilbert snickered.

Ivan rubbed the back of his head. "Er, recyclables," he murmured, looking embarrassed for Yao. Then his face darkened and he let out an ominous laugh while a strange purple aura began to flare around him. "Kolkolkolkol...It's not very nice to laugh at people's accents, comrade. How many languages do _you_ speak?" He demanded.

Gilbert, still holding his sides, looked up at Ivan. "One, I'm not your comrade, you Borsch-slurping Chernobyl motherfucker. And two, I speak three languages, so you and your little eggroll butt buddy can lick mein balls and tell me their flavour!"

Elizaveta jumped between the two before Ivan could pull his trusty water pipe out and cave in Gilbert's skull. She really wasn't in the mood to drive anyone to the hospital today. "Quit it you douche-nozzles," she said sternly. "Gilbert, stop being such an asshole all of the time. And Ivan, come off your high horse. Everyone's a little bit racist, you know."

Ivan looked considerably calmer, although he still frowned at her last statement. "_I'm_ not," he argued.

Angelique raised an eyebrow. "Oh no?"

Ivan shook his head, grabbing Yao, who had just appeared holding a bag of empty cans, and pulled the short Chinese man close to him, causing Yao to look pleadingly at them for help. "How many Oriental roommates have _you _got?" He asked smugly.

At that, Yao's face reddened with anger and he somehow managed to pull away from the other man's vice-like grip. "Ivan!" he growled.

Gilbert pumped his fist in the air. "It's song time again!" He, Elizaveta, and Angelique got in a line while Ivan and Yao unconsciously followed suit.

"Yo, Ivan, you dickhead, where you been? The term is Asian-American!"-Gilbert

"I know you are no"

"Intending to be!"

"But calling me Oriental..."

"Offensive to me!"- Yao

Ivan tugged at his scarf, looking rueful. "I'm sorry Yao. I love you!" He cried.

"WHAT?" Yao shrieked, an expression of the utmost terror crossing his face. Elizaveta immediately began to nosebleed.

"But you know, you're racist too," Ivan reminded Yao, as though he hadn't just made that disturbing proclamation.

Yao gave him a "you are so out of my apartment when this is over" look but shrugged and calmly said "I know." He then stood in the center of the room while everyone else gathered around him in a circle.

"The Jews have all the money,"

"And the whites have all the power!"

"And I'm always in taxi-cab,"

"With driver who no shower!" – Yao

"Me too!" Gilbert shouted

"Me too!" Elizaveta said, wiping blood from her nose and looking like a coke addict.

"I can't even _get _a taxi!" Angelique growled.

"Hey, I'll have you fuckers know I took a shower just this morning!" Sadiq, the local Turkish taxi driver snarled at them from outside the building. Evidently, he'd heard them while driving by.

"Yeah right," the sleepy voice of Heracles called down from his apartment. "Your ballsack probably smells like a feta-ripening factory."

"You want a whiff of them, you pita-munching pansy?" Sadiq shouted back.

"Eh, I'll pass," Heracles said. There was the slamming shut of a window and then a series of Turkish curses were heard for three straight minutes before Sadiq floored his cab and sped down the street with a vicious screeching of tires before crashing into a fire hydrant.

"SON OF A BITCH!" He screamed, causing all of the neighbourhood dogs to howl.

Elizaveta blinked. "Uhm...Okay. Where were we?"

"How we're all a little bit racist despite our vehement denial?" Ivan said.

"Right!" Elizaveta said. She clapped her hands. "All right people, all together now!"

"Everyone's a little bit racist,"

"It's true!"

"But everyone is just about"

"As racist as you!"

"If we all could just admit,"

"That we are racist a little bit!"

"And everyone stopped being so PC"

"Maybe we could live in..."

"Harmony! –The five of them all belted out.

"Evlyone's a ritter bit laciest!" Yao finished.

Ivan cocked his head in a puppyish manner. "The Prussian rat is right; you're accent _is _funny, Yao!"

"Fuck you, Ivan!" Yao snapped.

"I've been waiting for you to say that for the past six months!" Ivan said happily. He grabbed Yao, tossed the struggling man over his shoulder with a hasty "See you tomorrow comrades" and ran inside of their apartment, slamming the door shut. For a few seconds, there was silence, which was soon broken by a scream and the high-pitched glissando of shattering glass.

Gilbert looked concerned. "Uh, should we call the cops?" He asked. When he got no answer, he turned around to find Elizaveta passed out on the floor with blood gushing out of her nose and staining the carpet burgundy and Angelique desperately attempting to stem the flow with the hem of her dress.

He slapped his forehead. "Mein Gott," he muttered, wincing when another scream reverberated down the hallway. "What the hell is Ivan _doing _to him?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I think by now everyone is well aware of the fact that I don't own Hetalia or Avenue Q. I mean, would I be here if I did? Actually...I probably would be on here whenever I found the time. Hm, that says something about me, and I'm not sure if it's good...Oh well. Anyway, as requested, here is My Girlfriend Who Lives in Canada.**

Sweating, Roderich twisted his cravat nervously. He'd gone to Switzerland in order to attend his cousin Vash's wedding to his younger adoptive sister Erica, (which was half-sweet and half-creepy now that he really thought about it) and he was currently staring down the barrel of his aforementioned cousin's shotgun for his troubles. Why? Because he hadn't brought a date and Vash would sooner turn the gun on himself and blow himself a second asshole with it before he let good money go to waste because his "weeping vagina of a cousin lost his girlfriend to some alcoholic albino retard and was probably deep in the closet anyway so why didn't he just bring a man and be done with it?"

Roderich was tempted to tell him that he shouldn't have been so presumptuous and paid for one hundred meals for the reception, seeing as how he was an irascible, trigger-happy douchebag and would be lucky if even five of his family members showed up, but a nudge from the gun made him hold his tongue. _What to do, what to do_..._I still haven't quite come to grips with my admittedly confusing sexuality, but Vash is the last person whom I would tell that to. Gay, straight, or other, I still need an excuse as to why I opted to not bring anyone with me...Ah, I've got it! I'll make it up as I go along..__**in song**__. Music truly does solve all of my woes! Besides that haemorrhoid one, but the doctor said that would clear up soon..._

Clearing his throat, Roderich carefully pushed the shotgun away from his face. "I can assure you that I do indeed have a girlfriend. Sheis from...Canada. Yes, Canada. Since she lives so far away, I think it is obvious why she could not be in attendance." Straightening his spectacles, he walked towards the center of the sitting room and crossed his arms.

"I shall now express my contempt for your ridiculous assumption towards my sexuality in song." He sniffed haughtily. "Seeing as how you're too unrefined to actually own any musical instruments, seeing as how you prefer to squander whatever money that you don't hoard under your mattress on firearms, I will have to sing."

Vash rolled his eyes and flung himself on the couch. "Oh yeah, because show tunes just ooze heterosexuality. Face it Roderich, you're completely flaming. I'm surprised that you haven't set off the sprinkler systems yet," he said.

Roderich stuck his nose in the air. "Oh quit your blithering and let me get on with this, will you?" He demanded.

"Whatever," Vash yawned. "Hurry it up, will you piano-humper? The rehearsal dinner is in an hour."

Glaring at his cousin, Roderich commenced with his elaborate lie.

"Ohhhh..."

"I wish you could meet my girlfriend, my girlfriend who lives in Canada."

"She couldn't be sweeter"

"I wish you could meet her,"

"My girlfriend who lives in Canada!"

Vash flinched. "Er, you really ought to stick to piano Roderich. Singing is really not you're forte. I mean _really. _You sound like...I'm not even sure. Like a cat being simultaneously raped with a jalapeno pepper and stuck in a blender, maybe."

Ignoring him, Roderich continued.

"Her name is Alberta,"

"She lives in Vancouver."

"She cooks like my mother,"

"And sucks like a Hoover."

"Seriously?" Vash demanded. "The last thing anyone wants to think about is you getting sucked off by anyone, male or female. An actual vacuum cleaner would rip your dick off by the way, so that's really not the best comparison if you think about it. Although, it is pretty hard to imagine you getting blown by anything, since you seem like the kind of guy to hate all of the messier aspects of sex. Hm, in that case, the vacuum probably isn't a bad idea. Easy spillage cleanup, anyway." He scratched his head. "Speaking of which, do you even produce semen? I always sort of thought that you were a robot programmed only to play classical music and act like an uptight wanna-be aristocrat."

Roderich simply continued his off-key singing rather than bother to answer any of his cousin's questions. He was so into it that he didn't even feel embarrassed about the fact that he was spouting some of the most awkward lyrics in history.

"I text her every single day"

"Just to make sure that everything's okay."

"It's a pity she lives so far away, in Canada!"

"Last week she was here, but she had the flu."

"Too bad,"

"'Cause I wanted to introduce her to you."

"It's so sad."

"There wasn't a thing that she could do"

"But stay in bed with her legs up over her head!"

"Hey, Roderich, would you like a napkin?" Vash asked.

Roderich raised his eyebrows. "And why exactly would I need one?"

"Oh, I just figured that you could use something to wipe up the bullshit currently leaking out of your mouth," Vash said. "I mean, seriously? Here with the flu a week ago? You just got here today! At least get your story straight."

He looked at Roderich seriously. "Look, no one cares if you're gay," Vash said. "In fact, no one would be surprised at all, because, hey, let's face it; cravats aren't exactly manly, at least not in this day and age." He sighed, putting his feet up on the coffee table. "And in bed with her legs over her head? You expect me to believe _that_? You and I both know that it would be _you _lying back with your legs pretzeled around your partner's neck while they rode you like a pony. The day you top _anyone_ in bed is the day I burn a Euro. Which would be never. Because I love money. I'd marry it, if I could. Uhm...please don't tell Erica that," he trailed off.

"Allow me to finish my song and I won't breathe a word about your desire to use your anus as a coin slot to your wife-to-be," Roderich promised, smirking.

Vash flushed angrily. "That is not what I-He was cut off by Roderich once again raping his ears with his shitty excuse for singing.

"I wish you could meet my girlfriend,"

"But you can't because she is in Canada."

"I love her, I miss her, I can't wait to kiss her,"

"So soon I'll be off to Alberta!"

"I mean Vancouver!"

"Shit! Her name is Alberta, she lives in Vancou-"

"Oh God," Vash muttered. "This started off semi-entertaining, but now this is just pathetic. Vancouver and Alberta are both Canadian providences, jackwad! If you're going to make up a woman, make sure that her fake name isn't the same as one of the places in the country she comes from. Fucktard."

Desperate to keep up the ruse, Roderich hurriedly spat out the final verse, hoping that he could somehow convince Vash.

"She's my girlfriend!"

"My wonderful girlfriend!"

"Yes I have a girlfriend, who lives in Canada!"

"And I can't wait to eat her pussy again!"

He spat out the last line frantically, accidentally spitting all over Vash as well when he screamed the word "pussy". Horrified, he watched in numb terror as Vash slowly wiped the saliva off of his face with his sleeve.

"Roderich," he said quietly. "Your singing talent is nonexistent. Your voice...It is complete and utter _shit_. Fuck Dante's entire concept of the ninth level of hell being chewed on by Satan's three faces. I'd rather be ground to powder in the mouth of a devil for the rest of eternity than ever endure listening to you sing again. _That _would be hell. Stick to instrumentals. Please. Seriously, I think my ears are bleeding from when you ruptured them sometime during the second verse of this poor excuse for a song. And another thing: As I said earlier, no one gives two shits whether you're gay, straight, bisexual, or even if you're into bestiality, although we'd all prefer that you keep the latter to yourself if you are. Truthfully, the entire family has always assumed that you're either chaste or solely attracted to musical instruments. You could massage your prostate with a clarinet while masturbating into the mouth of a trombone for all I care. Whether or not you ever come to grips with your sexuality is not my problem. So that we don't ever have a repeat of this clusterfuck, next time there's a wedding, just call and say that you won't be bringing a date so that I can make sure not to spend money on someone who isn't showing up."

Rolling his shoulders, he stood up, facing Roderich, who stared at him in shock. The moment was ruined by Vash cocking his gun and firing several rounds at him, one of which grazed his hair, shooting off the odd little curl that stood up from his otherwise neat locks.

"What was _that _for?" Roderich demanded in a high-pitched voice as he gingerly felt the top of his head.

"That," Vash declared, "was for subjecting me to the torture that is your voice. Seriously, you fucking _suck._" He casually fired three more shots, all of which he deliberately aimed just inches away from Roderich's body.

"Those were for spitting all over me, insinuating that I have a sexual attraction to money and for making me waste my money on your non-existent beard, respectively," he said, casually walking out of the room as Roderich sank to the floor in a dead faint

"Pussy," Vash muttered.

Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, a young woman with violet eyes behind round-framed glasses and blonde hair pulled into two low ponytails sighed despondently as she sat in the Vancouver airport. "Roderich was supposed to have picked me up three hours ago," she said to the small polar bear cub lying in her lap. "I mean sure, he's probably gay and using me as a cover-up, but he was otherwise quite nice, if a little up his own ass. And besides, I've never been to Switzerland before." She twirled a loose lock of hair. "Do you think he forgot?"

The cub stared at her confusedly. "Who're you?" It said.

The girl hung her head. "Fuck my life."


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: Here is a list of things that I don't own: Hetalia, Avenue Q, and the concept of Schadenfreude. However, I do love all of these things, and intensely. So, so very intensely...**

Lovino threw a dirty look at Ludwig, his blind date. How the hell did he end up with a German from that shitty speed dating site? And a male German, at that? He could've sworn that he'd listed himself as interested in women...Feli had probably been messing around with his laptop again. But anyway, at least a German lady would have had enormous knockers that he could focus on in order to distract himself from the fact that she was from the land of Disco Pogo and Volkswagens.

He sighed. Looks like he would have to content himself to sit back and endure this extremely awkward IHOP meal. Yup, he would choke down his misery and just focus on eating his tomato omelette while imagining Ludwig with a sweet set of tits and try to ignore the stench of the hash browns wafting towards him from his date's plate. God, he hated potatoes...

Ludwig noticed Lovino's despondent expression and put his fork down. Gott, but the misery on his face stirred something deep in him, something visceral and primal and probably not completely healthy. In fact, he was pretty sure that it was the opposite of healthy, in fact. But damn, did his date's sadness make him feel good. Yes, good. In fact, it made him feel so good that he was tempted to burst into raucous laughter. But that wouldn't do. He made a point of not laughing too much. Had to keep up the image of the Germanic depressive, you know. Which was most likely the reason why he found himself so cheered by the misery of others, now that he thought about it...

"So...I take it that you're not particularly pleased with this?" Ludwig said slowly.

Lovino looked up from his plate and glared. "No shit, potato fucker," he snarled. "I thought that I was getting a date with a hot Belgian girl and instead I find you; Tall, Blonde, and Steroidal." He threw down his napkin disgustedly. "No offense, okay well no, I do mean this offensively. I'm not all that interested in dicks. Especially not Kraut-smelling German ones!"

Ludwig frowned, offended at this attack on his personal hygiene. "I'll have you know that I'm very obsessive about cleanliness," he said.

"I don't care how clean it is, Klaus! Your knob can be polished to the point that I can see my reflection in it or have enough cheese for a bagel. Point is, I don't want it!" Lovino shrieked, causing several people to stare curiously at them. He reddened and buried his face in his hands, obviously humiliated.

_Oh Gott, there it is again_. Unable to resist the voices spurring him to lap up the other man's sorrow like sweet nectar, Ludwig pushed his plate aside and stood up. "You hate this date, don't you?" He said. "It's the single worst day of your life, isn't it? Right now, you're down and out and feeling extremely crappy."

Lovino sighed, all the fight having been drained from him. "I'll say," he mumbled.

Ludwig folded his hands on the table, eyes gleaming. "You know, when I see how distressed you are...It makes me...happy."

"What the-Lovino gaped at him. "_Happy? _You sick son a bitch! You _like _seeing other people miserable?" He shouted.

Ludwig shrugged. "I suppose I have no choice but to express myself through song. It's strange, but people all around New York City have been overtaken by the urge to perform song and dance numbers for some reason. It's spreading like AIDs." He coughed. "But I won't be dancing. I don't do dancing. But just hear me out here, all right?"

Lovino rolled his eyes and blew his stray curl out of his face. "Just get on with it," he muttered.

Ludwig cleared his throat. "Very well." With that said, he began to sing.

"Sorry, but it's just human nature,"

"There's nothing I can do,"

"It's...

"Schadenfreude!"

"Making me feel glad that I'm not you!"

Lovino placed his chin in his hand, unimpressed. "Tch. And people say that _I'm _an asshole."

Ludwig shrugged noncommittally. "No one said it's nice. But everybody does it."

"Didn't you clap earlier when that waitress fell and dropped all those glasses?"

Lovino shifted uncomfortably in his chair, looking embarrassed. "Well...Yeah,' he admitted grudgingly.

Ludwig's mouth twitched up imperceptibly at the corner.

"Und isn't it hilarious to watch figure skaters fall on their asses?"

At that, Lovino burst out laughing. "Ahahaha! Oh man, remember that time on TV that one chick was dropped on her head by her partner? Bitch totally ate shit!"

Looking triumphant, Ludwig sat down again and edged closer to Lovino.

"Don't you just feel all warm and cosy,"

"Watching people out in the rain?"

Lovino smirked. "Hell yeah. It's always been my dream to refuse someone shelter from a hurricane."

Having gotten his point across, Ludwig began to sing again.

"See, that's..."

"Schadenfreude!"

"People taking pleasure in your pain!"

Lovino looked thoughtful. "Schadenfreude, huh? That some kinda Nazi word or something?"

"Well, it's a German phrase roughly translated as "happiness at the misfortune of others," Ludwig explained.

"Meh. Nazi, German," Lovino said flippantly. "Same shit, different toilet." His eyes lit up. "Happiness at the misfortune of others...Damn, that _is _German! Ooh, I've got an example:

"Watching a vegetarian being told she just ate chicken!"

Ludwig smiled for real this time before belting out the next line.

"Or watching a frat boy realize what he just put his dick in!"

Not to be outdone, Lovino came up with the next one.

"Being on an elevator when somebody shouts "hold the door!"

"No! Schadenfreude!" They both sang.

"Fuck you lady, that's what stairs are for!" Ludwig added.

"Ooh, how about straight-A students getting B's?" Lovino suggested.

"Even better: exes getting STD's!" Ludwig said.

"Waking doormen from their naps!" Lovino trilled.

"Watching tourists reading maps!" Ludwig belted out.

"Rugby players getting tackled!" Lovino shouted

"CEOs getting shackled!" Ludwig bellowed.

"Watching actors never reach..." Lovino began.

The two of them looked at each other and nodded before singing in unison:

"The ending of their Oscar speech!"

"Schadenfreude!"

"Schadenfreude!"

"Schadenfreude!"

"Schadenfreude!"

"The world needs people like you and me,"

"Who've been knocked around by fate."

"'Cus when people see us,"

"They don't want to be us,"

"Und that makes them feel great!" Ludwig sang.

"Hey, we're providing a vital service to society, so they ought to be sucking our balls in thanks!" Lovino said.

They threw their arms around one another and shouted the last segment.

"You and me!"

"Schadenfreude!"

"Making the world a better place..."

"Making the world a better place..."

"Making the world a better place..."

"To be!"

"S-C-H-A-D-E-N-F-R-E-U-D-E!" Ludwig added at the last minute.

Wiping a tear of laughter from his eye, Lovino turned around in his seat to look at Ludwig. "You know, I was wrong about you. Sure, you're a macho potato muncher who's probably a closet sadomasochist and has an Anti-Semitic grandfather covered in Swastika tattoos, but deep down, you're as much of a misanthropic dick as I am." He sighed. "You know, that last bit of our song kind of disappointed me. The last thing we want to do is make the world a better place for other people through our misery. _They _should be making _us _feel better with _their _misery!"

Ludwig gazed at him in wide-eyed admiration. "Mein Gott, you're right!" Looking somewhat bashful, he held out a hand to Lovino. "Would you care to laugh at the misery of the corner store owner with me?" He asked. "I heard that he got robbed last night. All of the money in his register was stolen, the shelves were cleared, and what's left is in shambles. Apparently, one of the thieves even took a shit on his floor. What do you say?"

Smiling widely, Lovino grasped Ludwig's hand, pulled him out of his chair, and linked his arm through his. "It's a date, Hasselholf."


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: Blah blah blah, I don't own either of these things I'm writing about. Anyway, please don't hate me for making Poland play the role of Lucy the slut. I really couldn't think of anyone more suitable in my current half-conscious state. And so, without further ado, I present to you Toris and Feliks' rendition of "Special."**

Toris sighed as he walked down St. Mark's Place. His job as a secretary for a psychopathic Russian mob boss was going nowhere (and he was pretty sure that the whackjob had a bizarre sexual attraction to him, too, something that he didn't want to think about), the love of his life had taken one look at him when he'd arrived at her door with a bouquet of roses before slamming the door in his face (and on his hand, thus breaking all of his fingers, hence why his right hand was currently in a cast), he'd just been accosted a few minutes ago by a perverted blonde Frenchman on the subway who'd attempted to stick his hand down his pants while claiming to be searching for nuts and as the arsenic-laced cherry atop of the shit sundae that was his day, it was raining. As in, it was pouring buckets of more likely than not chemical-laced rain from the sky, complete with howling winds and occasional flashes of lightning and roars of thunder. And he didn't even have an umbrella, since it had been stolen from him on the train by some little punkass kid with huge eyebrows wearing a sailor suit while he was trying to fight off the creepy Frenchman's advances.

Stopping to wring the excess water from his hair, a taxi blaring Turkish belly dance music from its radio sped by him, splattering him with a combination of muddy water and God-knows-whatever was running through the gutter. Which was more likely than not a mixture of human waste and specks of crack rocks. As Toris tore at his hair in frustration, he heard grating laughter coming from the backseat of the cab, along with two German and Italian-accented voices shouting the words "Schadenfreude, bitch!" at him.

Cursing his luck, or lack thereof, he ran into the nearest store for shelter. He figured that he'd just pretend to be perusing whatever the hell it was that they sold while waiting out the storm and then leave without buying anything. Hey, it was New York, people pulled dick moves like that all of the time. It was like, an unspoken rule of all New Yorkers.

Shouldering open the door, Toris found himself looking not at rows of candy and magazines but deep-red walls, black leather couches and a 4'x4' wide x10" stage with three poles bolted to the ceiling in its center. Above the stage in glittery pink cursive were the words "Vaginas R' Us."

Toris' eyes widened to the size of saucers until he thought they would pop out of their sockets. "Oh," he said. "**Oh. **I-I need to get out of-Before he could make his grand escape, he found himself being pushed onto one of the couches by an immensely busty woman with short blonde hair and turquoise blue eyes wearing nothing more than blue nipple pasties whose tassels continuously twirled in circles, a matching g-string, thigh-high stiletto-heeled boots and elbow-length gloves that were probably made of vinyl.

"Really miss, this is not the sort of place that I usually frequent," Toris began as he stood up from his seat. Alas, the incessant circular motion of the tassels lulled him into a state of hypnosis and he sat down like an obedient child, nodding with a blank expression on his face and blood trickling from his nose.

"There there dear," the woman with the hypno-boobs said in a thick Eastern European accent. "Just keep staring at my milk-makers until the show starts and I assure you that by the end of the hour, all of your troubles will be forgotten." She sauntered off as the lights dimmed and bass-heavy techno music began to reverberate through the smoky little room, heels clicking loudly against the hardwood floor as she strutted away, assured that the power of her immense knockers would keep him firmly rooted in place.

Blinking dazedly, Toris wiped away the blood that had collected above his upper lip and looked around, confusion written all over his face. "What just happened here?" He muttered. He thought for a second. "Oh yeah. Hypno-boobs." Shrugging, he began to dig around in his wallet for some singles. "Might as well stick around, at least until the rain stops," he reasoned. True, strip joints weren't really his thing, but hey, when in Rome...Er, Manhattan.

As Rob Zombie's "Pussy Liquor" played in the background, Toris and all of the other lonely men sitting around him in the audience were bombarded by a sultry voice from behind the red velvet stage curtain that absolutely oozed the promise of all manner of filthy sex acts whispering...All of the reasons why they were here instead of out with women that they didn't have to pay to see get naked? What?

"Yes," the sexy voice whispered, "you're all losers in one way or another. Deep down, you all know that Plan A, a.k.a. picking up a woman for consensual, non-purchased sex failed. So here you are, on to Plan B, ready to stuff one dollar bills down a strange woman's thong for some quick gratification. But not only will your satisfaction be short-lived, but the likelihood of any of you actually getting laid by one of us is lower than Atlantis. Remember, our slogan is "At one's pleasure by one's own hand", so don't get grabby unless you want to be hauled off in a squad car." The voice paused. "Some of you are fat. Some of you are ugly. Some of you have no jobs and are using your diabetic mother's insulin money to pay for your visit here. Some of you are all of the above. And some of you are just hapless schmucks who ran in here to get out of the rain and now feel obligated to sit down and toss some money our way. It doesn't matter, because either way, sex sells and you all damn well know it. Why do you think there are more varieties of KY-jelly than there are of Smucker's? But whatever. Now, without further ado, I present to you our dancer of the day...DIXIE NORMOUS!"

Toris' pondering over the oddness of that stage name was interrupted by the appearance of a woman with tilted green eyes and honey-blonde hair cut in a shoulder-length bob crawling across the stage.

Clad in miniscule leather short-shorts, fish-net thigh-highs, a jacket partially unzipped to reveal some very nice cleavage, platform boots and with shiny handcuffs dangling at her hip, the girl perched her police hat at an angle so that it coquettishly covered her left eye before bending over so that her head touched the floor of the stage before smacking her ass.

_Officer at attention_, Toris thought as he felt the front of his pants begin to tighten.

For the next ten minutes he and his fellow strip joint frequenters were treated to Dixie Normous' erotic display of skilful gymnastics and dance moves performed to the tune of Fat Joe's "I Make It Rain." Her flexibility was mind blowing, bringing to mind other things that they wouldn't mind having blown by her. She grinded, she twirled, she hung upside down on that pole with no hands like it was nothing, flowing effortlessly from drags to corkscrews to swan spins to side princesses' to front and backs to pole slides to elbow stands to straight climbs to double taps and back. It was so beautiful in its graceful sensuality that it brought tears to all of their eyes as surely as it did uncomfortable hardness to their nether regions.

And then, something amazing happened. She caught Toris' eye and winked at him. Feeling the blood rush from his penis to his face, Toris stared at her in amazement. _Is __**she**__ interested in __**me**__?_

As if reading his mind, she nodded her head slightly before leaping off the stage and into his lap, where she began to rub herself against him.

"You know," she whispered with a husky Polish accent, "I've, like totally got a little song I'd like to sing for you in, like. private. Wanna, like, take this to the back room?"

Toris scratched his head. _Well, the girl I'm in love with hates me to the point that she's held me at knife-point so that I'll stop rooting through her garbage, my boss is a psychotic man child with a drinking problem and I haven't gotten laid in...Well, ever. Not like I have much to lose. Unless this chick turns out to have an STD or something, but there must be condoms somewhere around here, right? _

His decision finalized, Toris tossed the giggling woman over his shoulder and hastily shoved open the door labelled "Hump Room: Be safe and clean up after yourselves." Placing her carefully in the middle of the room, he sat down on the straight-backed chair pushed up against the wall, watching her eagerly. To his confusion, rather than tossing off her clothes and jumping his bones, Dixie Normous instead stretched languidly and began to sing.

_Ugh. Fuck me, _Toris groused internally. _I thought that I was gonna get to hide my pickle in her ham sandwich. Damn it. _

"I can like totally make you feel special"

"When it sucks to be you."

"I can make you feel like really special"

"For an hour or two."

"Your life's a routine that repeats, like, each day."

"No one, like, cares who you are or what you say."

"And sometimes you feel like you're nobody,"

"But you can totally feel like somebody with me" Dixie sang.

Toris frowned. "Is this supposed to make me feel better? Because if you r_eally _wanted to make me feel special, you could take off your bra-

Dixie stopped for a second and gestured towards her breasts. "Oh yeah. Just for the record, these, like, aren't real," she said offhandedly.

"Oh. That's...Pretty disappointing, actually," Toris admitted. "But it's not a deal breaker. I'll just have to be careful so that I don't rupture one of your implants, I suppose. Now, if you could stop singing for a second and-Once again, he was interrupted by her bursting out into song, thus cementing the fact that indeed no one gave a shit about what he had to say, just as she'd sang earlier.

"When we're together the earth will, like shake"

"And the stars will totally fall into the sea."

"So come on, baby, like, let down your guard."

"When your girlfriend's stabbed you for the fourth time,"

"I'll slip you my card (it's a wicked hipster pink, by the way)"

"I can tell just by looking that you've like totally got it hard"

"For me! For me!"

"For me! For me!"

"For me! For me!"

"I can tell just by looking that you are especially hard for me!"

"Actually," Toris said hesitantly, "I kind of lost my erection somewhere between 'stabbed' and 'wicked hipster pink'. No offense, but that song was decidedly _un_-erotic. It was like an instant cure for arousal; a kind of lyrical form of erectile dysfunction, if you will. Kind of as if I simultaneously sprayed ice water all over my penis while thinking of my grandmother's back rolls." He stood up. "So er...thank you for this. I think. But I really must be going now." Out of politeness (and the fact that her pole dancing routine had been way better than her singing) he pulled out a fifty dollar bill from his wallet and held it out to her.

She stared at it, cocking her head to the side. "You wanna know why my stage name is Dixie Normous?" She asked, a strange little half-smile on her.

Toris scratched his head in bewilderment. _Random_. "Uhm...You like enormous dicks?"

'Dixie's smile widened as she began to unbutton her shorts while shaking her head.

_Oh hell yeah, __**that's **__more like it, _Toris thought.

"Nope," she said, putting emphasis on the _pe_. "It's because I _have _an enormous dick." 'She' tugged down her hot pants, revealing a very..._healthy _piece of man meat with a Prince Albert piercing going through the head. "Now," 'Dixie' murmured, voice deepening to an unmistakeably male tone, "like, show me _your _penis and junk!"

Screaming so loudly that the walls shook, Toris threw the fifty aside and ran out of the room, shrieking at the top of his lungs. He shoved past several other patrons, knocked down the lady with the enormous hypnotizing tits into a table and bowled over the tall black bouncer with the cross shaved into his hair in his desperation to get out of Vaginas R' Us.

Panting in the middle of the sidewalk with his head between his knees, he hyperventilated for a full minute before he was able to get his breathing back under control. "Never again," he gasped. "I'll stick my dick in the garbage disposal before I ever go into another strip club." Just as he made this declaration, the same taxi cab from before (he could tell by the music blaring from it) drove past him, once again splattering him with dirty-ass rain water while the German and Italian guy who were still for the some reason in the back seat (probably paying the driver extra just so they could drive around scouting the city for more people to splash and mock) once again laughed uproariously at his misfortune. "Assholes," he muttered darkly. "I hope they crash into a fucking bus." Cursing under his breath, Toris began to storm down the street to his apartment.

"Now that I think about it, I should've seen the fact that she was really a he coming," he said. "I mean, St. Marks' Place is one of the gayest parts of Manhattan. Geeze." Shaking his head at his gullibility, Toris continued down the sidewalk, once again erupting into a burst of expletives when the sky yet again opened up and began to pour down rain on him. "MOTHERFUCKER!" He screamed as lightning cut across the sky and thunder roared in the background.

Meanwhile, back in the private room of Vaginas R' Us, a certain Polish bodega worker/part-time cross-dressing stripper was having a good laugh. Flicking a tear from the corner of his eye, Feliks grinned widely. "Oh man, that was totally fucking hilarious," he sighed. "Hot cop outfit: $90. Hooker boots: $50. Realistic prosthetic tits: $150.99. The look on guy's faces when I pull my dick out on them and ask them to show me theirs: Priceless!"


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: Yadda yadda yadda, I won't own Hetalia or Avenue Q, yadda yadda yadda, here is the requested "The Internet Is For Porn" featuring the siblings Belgium and Netherlands. Enjoy!**

Emma smiled as she brushed away the Styrofoam peanuts covering her newly arrived iPad 3. After pulling it out of its box and placing it on her desk with a look of utter reverence on her face, she unceremoniously swept her old laptop into the trash bin. "Oh Steve Jobs," she sighed, "why did you have to go so soon? You brought so much good to this shithole world!"

Humming, she turned on her iPad and immediately began to browse the web. "Oh man, the internet is fantastic. I'd hate to imagine the world if it had never been invented...God, the suicide rate would probably be through the roof!"

Her fingers flitting across the screen, Emma browsed through all manner of websites: Cracked, Killfrog, Bored. So many dot com websites, so little time... "Really, what the hell would I do without the internet?" She said aloud. "I might have to actually _go outside," _Emma shuddered. "Fuck, that's awful. But fuck outside, I have the internet!"

"The internet is really, really great," Emma sang.

She stopped when she heard someone fumbling to unlock the door. Emma stared as her older brother Lars dragged himself into the foyer and slammed the apartment door shut, red-eyed and reeking of weed, his ever-present pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth. Ambling into the living room, he tapped flakes of marijuana from his pipe onto the floor, much to her irritation.

Lars raised an eyebrow at her. "You caught the Broadway disease, too?" He drawled. "Shit's spreading like AIDS." Lars set his pipe on the desk. "This is probably just the weed talking, but I think I'll join in on your faggy little show tune."

Emma stared at him, not sure if she wanted to make this into a duet. "Um...Okay."

"What are we singing about here?" Lars asked, indifferent to the look of trepidation on her face.

"The internet," Emma sighed. _I guess____it won't be __**too **__bad if he joins in..._

"Oh. Lame." Lars scratched at his spiky dirty-blonde hair. "Can you sing that first line again?"

Emma rolled her eyes but complied. Even stoned out of his mind, Lars was just too difficult to argue with, mostly because he just stood there glaring at you until you gave up for fear that you'd end up being found in a dumpster the next day.

"The internet is really, really great," Emma sang again.

"For porn." Lars deadpanned.

Emma glared at her brother. "Lars, you're supposed to sing it! And not about stupid porn, either!" She added irritably.

"Tch, yeah right. I don't do singing."

"You are such a...I don't even know!"

"I think the world you're looking for is 'man', zus."

"More like drug-addled assclown..."

"Sticks and stones. Now shut up and go on with this gay-ass song, I want to talk about porn some more."

Emma glared at him disgustedly but continued. "I've got a fast connection so I don't have to wait!"

"For my porn," Lars said tonelessly.

"Lars, you perverted jackwad! Ugh! Never mind. There's always some new website-"

"For porn," Lars interrupted. Yeah, he definitely wasn't going to be singing. He was way too manly for that. Yup, he was fucking Manly McManlyson himself.

"I browse all day and night," Emma trilled.

"For porn," Lars said.

"It's like I'm surfing at the speed of light,"

"For porn."

"God damn it Lars, you are ruining this song! I mean, what the fuck is _wrong_ with you? Porn this, porn that, porn, porn motherfucking porn! Don't you use the internet for anything else?"

"Uh...No. The internet is for porn and _only_ porn for me."

"Lars, I'm warning you...!"

"Why the fuck do you think the net was born? For porn, porn, and oh yeah, porn."

"**LARS!"**

"Oh, hej zus. When did you get here?"

"Holy shit. Fuck. You are tripping _balls _right now. Was there hash mixed into that pot you were smoking earlier?"

"Eh, probably. We're singing right now in this dream of mine, right?"

"Dream? What? Jesus Christ, you are seriously baked. And it's more like I'm singing and you're throwing in retarded lines about porn in a robotic monotone."

"Hm. Man, I love porn. Especially teen cams, I love how tight and pink their pussies look..."

"Oh God. That's...That's just _sick. _You need serious psychological help. Or shock therapy to your penis. Chemical castration. Something."

"Hey man, don't judge."

"How can I _not _judge? Lars, you're twenty-fucking-five-years-old. It's _illegal _for you to watch pornography of people that are under eighteen. Do you _wanna _go to prison on child porn charges?"

"If the jail I'm in has internet so I can look at more porn, than sure, why not?"

"You know what Lars? Just shut the hell up and let me finish this song by myself. Seriously, put a dick in it."

"I'd have to be high _and _drunk on some pretty strong shit before _that _happens. A.k.a. basted."

"**I SAID PUT A DICK IN IT, DAMN IT!"**

"Fine. Quit yelling. You're harshing my buzz."

"Thank you." "I'm glad we have this new technology,"

"For porn."

"Remember that dick we just talked about?"

"Sorry."

"Which gives us untold opportunity,"

"For po-Lars fell silent at the look on his sister's face. "Shutting up now."

"Right from your iPad or desktop,"

"For-

"**P-U-T-A**-**D-I-C-K –I-N-I-T! **What does that spell? **PUT A DICK IN IT! **You can research browse and shop, until you've had enough and you're ready to stop"

"For porn."

Emma put her head on the desk. "I give up. Just...go on," she sighed.

"Cool. Where was I?" Lars muttered. "Oh yeah. The internet is for porn. I stay up all night honking my horn to porn, porn, porn."

"That's so gross," Emma whimpered, desperately trying to wipe the image of her brother sitting at the computer desk and vigorously masturbating to some chick half-heartedly shoving a fire-engine-red dildo in and out of her overused axe wound."

"Fuck off, Emma. It's perfectly normal."

"Uh, no, it's not, you teen-loving sicko. What half-way normal person sits around watching and jacking off to porn on the internet?" She demanded.

"Hmm..."

"Oh God, what sick-fuckery have you come up with now?"

"Oh, nothing. Just that you have no idea how many people sit around beating off to porn...Ready normal people?" Lars called.

On cue, Antonio, Heracles and Gilbert all popped into the apartment and began to speak in unison.

"We are so fucking ready!"

"All right, let's hear it," Lars said, throwing his sister a triumphant look before joining the other three men in their chanting while Emma attempted to strangle herself with one of Lars' spare scarves in the background.

"The internet is for porn!" The men shouted.

"Sorry for keeping this from you until now, mi amorcita," Antonio said embarrassedly to Emma. "Please don't break up with me for this!" She merely sighed and waved offhandedly at him.

"The internet is for porn!" The men all repeated.

"I masturbate," Gilbert said proudly.

"It's true. All of these guys unzip their flies for porn, porn, porn," Lars mumbled. His high was starting to wear off and his enthusiasm for this musical routine was plummeting along with it.

"PORN, PORN, P-The four said before they were cut off by a furious Emma."

"HOLD ON A SECOND!" She screamed. "I've got a few questions for you perverts," she growled. "Now I know for a fact that you look at lolcat pictures and play 17 Ways to Kill Your Boss, Heracles," Emma said.

"That's true," Heracles mumbled sleepily, looking like he was going to fall out at any second.

She turned to Gilbert next. "And you harass your cousin Roderich on AIM using multiple screen names, send him viruses via email, have a fake facebook account impersonating him so you can make it look like he's in a relationship with a goat and that his hobbies include anal stimulation using flutes and sucking donkey dicks and maintain a blog dedicated entirely to yourself and your retarded exploits."

"Kesesesese. True. And they're my _awesome_ exploits, biatch."

"Whatever," Emma said." "And _you_, Tony," she said, casting a baleful glance at her boyfriend. "You sent me that adorable list of 101 Different Ways to Say 'I Love You!"

"Si, I did!" Antonio said cheerfully.

Lars ruined the moment by snorting. "Tch. What do you think your Latin Lover did afterwards, Emma?"

Her eyes widened. "No," she said slowly.

"...Yeah," Antonio whispered shamefacedly.

"**EW!"** Emma screeched. She was seriously considering jamming a pencil into each of her eyes and slamming her head down on the table, thus driving them through her brain and killing her at this horrible revelation. Sweet, clueless Antonio fapping right after...

Her thoughts of suicide were cut off by her brother and his friends picking up their chant once again.

"The internet is for porn!"

"So grab your dick and double click,"

"For porn, porn, porn, porn,"

"Porn, porn, porn, porn,"

"The internet is for,"

"Yes, the internet is for,"

"The internet is for,"

"PORN! YEAH BITCHES!" They finished and looked at her expectantly.

Emma slowly raised her head from her arms. "You're all disgusting," she said softly. "You're nothing but a bunch of filthy perverts. But go ahead. Watch your precious porn. Watch it until you jerk your dicks raw and the skin starts to peel off in handfuls. Watch it until you run out of semen and can only ejaculate a mixture of blood and dust, which will be fantastic, as it'll ensure that you'll never doom the world with your degenerate spawn. I don't give a shit anymore. You've...You've broken me." She pushed herself out of her chair. "I'll be back in a few hours. I have to go wash everything I own."

Immediately, Antonio ran after her, sobbing. "Please Emma, don't leave me! I promise, I'll stop watching porn! Er...I'll only watch it on Saturdays! Please, come back!" He screamed, running into her room while waving his arms like a hummingbird that had been doped up on PCP.

"What's her deal?" Gilbert muttered as he walked out of the door. "Calling us perverts...We're not perverts, we're just being men! So un-awesome. Man, bitches will never understand the awesome that is porn..."

Lars shrugged. "Whatever. I'm outta here." He strolled out the door as well, presumably in search of his dealer. And maybe a hooker. What, just because he liked porn didn't mean he didn't enjoy the real deal.

After making sure that everyone was out of the living room, Heracles sat in Emma's abandoned seat, fished her discarded laptop out of the trash, and plugged it in. Typing in his search on Google, he clicked on the website hosting the video "Sperms of Endearment", settled back, and unzipped his fly while yawning. "Time for a pre-nap banana buffing session," he mumbled.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: How many times do I have to say that I don't own Hetalia or Avenue Q? Because I really would like to stop...Anyway, please enjoy France's performance of "I'm Not Wearing Underwear Today"!**

Francis examined his reflection in the cracked mirror of the dingy bathroom of the comedy club "Funny or it's Free" in which he would be performing onstage later that night. The lighting was poor what with the fact that the cramped space was illuminated only by a bare bulb swinging precariously above his head that looked as though it was about to fizzle out in any second in addition to being covered in what was more likely than not several years worth of accumulated dust and fly faeces, but even so, his beauty still shone through like a beacon of light. Hell, he _liked _the peeling walls covered in hastily scrawled graffiti, the insect-filled cobwebs lining the water-marked ceiling and even the barely functioning toilet that was browning either with either age or shit stains. Probably both. The ugliness of the room only served to make him look even better in comparison, which appealed mightily to the rather vain Frenchman.

What was he doing in the grimy restroom of a hole-in-the-wall Manhattan comedy club, you ask? Well, for the past few days, Francis had been spending the majority of his time riding the subway all day in the hopes of perhaps meeting his soul mate. Yes, he indeed believed that amongst the masses of obese people reeking of onions and ass and stressed Wall Street stock brokers clad in rumpled suits who bore the grim expressions of people who were ready to throw themselves out of their office window's in order to eat the asphalt so that they wouldn't have to once again see the DOW Jones plummet that he might perhaps stumble upon the person that he would spend the rest of his life with. Certainly, and upon finding them, he would take them into his arms and oh fuck it: He was really just a serial groper who got his jollies by fondling hapless subway riders and then running off while giggling like a schoolgirl.

Unfortunately for him and fortunately for anyone who had to use public transportation, Francis had been apprehended earlier today by the police whilst in the middle of putting his hand up the skirt of a short, serious-looking girl with long dark blonde hair and glasses. His fingers had barely grazed the smooth, supple flesh of her right buttock before she screamed bloody murder and swung her bag at his head, causing him to stumble back and into the subway pole behind him.

His head had struck it directly, knocking him unconscious and by the time he'd gathered his bearings, he'd found himself handcuffed and being led away by two police officers, who took him to the Seventh Precinct. He'd managed to get off with little more than a $500 fine, which he had paid immediately and within two hours he was once again roaming the streets. So, what the hell does any of this have to do with the fact that Francis was about to be performing a stand-up comedy routine in a derelict club with multiple safety and sanitary violations? Beats me, this is really just a way to fill up page space...Wait, no, this actually _is _relevant!

Anyway, while despondently wandering the streets in search of something to occupy his time, like a strip club or a sex toy shop (he really _was_ in dire need of a new set of anal beads), Francis happened upon a urine-yellow flier taped crookedly to a street lamp. It read: _Are you funny? If not, it really doesn't matter. Seriously, I don't give a shit. I have multiple citations against me due to safety and sanitary violations, so I pretty much just want to give a last hurrah and an epic 'fuck you' to the Health & Safety department before they shut me down. You heard that, Eduard from the bureau of food safety and community sanitation, you pasty-faced, four-eyed basement dweller? FUCK YOU. For more information call 1-800-SUK-DICK."-Alfred Fucking Jones. _

As he'd squinted at the ridiculously tiny font (how else were they supposed to fit so much wording on a 4x4 inch sheet of paper?), Francis decided upon reading the words "fuck ", "suck", and "dick", which happened to be among some of his favourite words in the English language that he might as well give it a shot.

And so, here he was, admiring his reflection in a grime-coated mirror with a huge crack running down its center in the middle of an unbelievably filthy bathroom while readying himself to entertain strangers on stage in a manner that didn't involve him dropping his pants to his ankles and waving his junk at all of them so that they might get a good look at the 'B' (for his surname, Bonnefoy _and _for the fact that he was quite the beast in bed, if he did say so himself) shaved into his pubes.

Speaking of which, it was nearly time for him to go onstage. Straightening his tie, Francis winked and flipped his perfectly coiffed golden hair before turning around to read the message written across the third wall of the room.

"For a good time call 212-660-2245. P.S. She likes it in her poop chute," he read to himself. "Ohonhonhonhon; this number is definitely going in mon petit carnet noir!" He said, pulling a pen and a rubber-banded notebook out of the pocket of his suit jacket which was stuffed to full capacity with what looked to be hundreds of phone numbers and addresses. Quickly scribbling down the number of his latest butt-slut conquest, Francis stuffed the notebook back into his pocket, patted his crotch (it was therapeutic for him) and strolled out of the bathroom.

As he sat on the stool provided for him on the stage, Francis surveyed the crowd, which consisted of exactly one person, an irritable-looking young man with extremely thick eyebrows, deep green eyes and a facial expression that clearly said "I'm only here for the free booze" sitting at one of the cheap plastic tables.

Considering the state of "It's Funny or it's Free (i.e. the fact that it was a complete and utter shithole), Francis supposed that even one person in the audience was a great turn-out. And besides the eyebrows, which were in themselves somewhat charming if he ignored the fact that they were roughly the size of Hershey bars, the man was very attractive despite the unapproachable expression on his face. Francis grinned to himself. _Time for the old charm._

"So mon cher, have you heard the one about the woman and the magical dildo?" Francis asked, waggling his eyebrows. Oh yeah. Real winning line right there.

"The name's Arthur, not cher, you bloody frog and yes, I _have_ heard that hackneyed excuse of a joke. God, I knew that this place was going to blow but I didn't think it'd be this bad," the man snapped.

Francis merely smiled coyly. "Blow, eh?"

Arthur's face reddened. "Oh sod off, will you! If you're going to be a pervert onstage in a comedy club, why don't you try and be at least somewhat funny?" He said, taking a swig of his drink. He shuddered. "Dear God that's nasty. What the bloody hell did the bartender do, piss in the cup and then dip his sack in it for extra flavour?

He turned his gaze back on an insulted-looking Francis and smirked. "I know that my idiotic twat of a half-brother Alfred is letting just anyone perform tonight before he gets shut down, but my God, you're absolute _shit_. The only thing entertaining about your act is watching you flop," he drawled. He took another gulp of his drink, downing the remainder in one shot. Arthur gestured towards the bartender, a bored-looking, silver-haired pretty-boy youth who looked barely out of his teens. "Hit me," he called.

Shrugging, the boy picked up a sixteen-ounce bottle of whisky and chucked it at Arthur, hitting him square in the face. "OW! What the fuck was that for, you androgynous little cunt?"

"You said to hit you," the bartender, whose nametag read Emil, responded tonelessly.

"I didn't mean literally!" Arthur shouted, clutching his rapidly swelling eye.

Emil shrugged. "I'm Icelandic," he said, as if that explained everything, which it sort of did. Catching the disturbing look that Francis was throwing him, he picked up a double-barrelled shotgun from beneath the counter and aimed it at him. "Stick to harassing the English douche or I'll blow your eyes out of your skull and make him screw the sockets."

Laughing nervously, Francis waved his hands. "Now now mon cher, no need to-He stopped short when he heard the gun click.

"I _said_," Emil muttered lowly, "stick to Groucho Marx's and Simon Pegg's love child over there. Unless you _want _me to blast another hole up your ass?"

"Tch, that sick bastard would probably enjoy having a second arsehole," Arthur muttered. "He'd be able to get buggered twice as often..."

Francis began to sweat. He had a shotgun aimed at him, his sole audience member would probably applaud when he took a bullet to his face, and the stool he was sitting on was starting to hurt his ass. _How am I going to remedy this situation? _He thought desperately. And then, it came to him. _With song! Voila! Francis, you are un genius! Even better, because I have the perfect thing to sing about! Il est tr__é__s bon que je ne suis pas sous-v__ê__tements!" _

Leaping to his feet, Francis kicked the stool aside, causing it to fall off the stage and hit Arthur, who wound up nursing a split lip in addition to his blackened right eye from where it struck him.

"I'm going to murder that cocksucker by the end of the night," he mumbled as he held a napkin to his bleeding lower lip.

Heedless to the fact that he currently had two people out for his blood, Francis cleared his throat and began to sing in a surprisingly rich, if rather smarmy-sounding tenor. Then again, if it didn't make people at least somewhat uncomfortable, than it just wasn't Francis, plain and simple.

"Oh, I am not wearing underwear today!" He sang.

"Ugh, why would you even mention that?" Emil demanded, looking revolted.

"I concur; we all could have done without that highly disturbing revelation," Arthur agreed.

Ignoring them, Francis continued, belting out "Non, I am not wearing underwear today,"

"Not that you probably care,"

"Much about my underwear,"

"You're right, I don't," Emil deadpanned.

"Belt up, frog!" Arthur added. "The thought that the only thing separating your herpes-riddled prick from me is a few measly centimetres of cloth is enough to make me want to put that shotgun to my head."

"Oh, don't be so collet monté, mes amis!" Francis shouted, obviously enjoying their discomfort. "Now, where was I? Oh, yes:"

"Still none the less I must say,"

"That I'm not wearing any underwear todaaaaay!"

When he finished dragging out the last syllable, Francis looked beamingly at his audience. "So, what did you two beauties think?" He asked, flipping his hair over his collar.

"I think I'm going to call the cops," Emil said.

"And I think that I'm going to be ill," Arthur muttered, looking a bit green around the edges. He turned towards Emil, who was about to dial 9-11 on his cell phone. "Do you think you might ask for an ambulance as well?"

Emil paused his finger above the 1 button to stare at him. "Are you that sick?"

"No," Arthur said calmly. "I just figured that it would be prudent, seeing as how I'm going to put this imbecile in a coma right now." He then proceeded to pick up the stool that Francis had accidentally kicked at him and chucked it at the Frenchman. It whistled dramatically through the air before striking Francis full in the face and knocking him flat on his ass.

As the Frenchman laid groaning and clutching his nose, Arthur stepped serenely up onto the stage, dragging the chair beside him before bringing it down on Francis' prone body with a resounding _thwack, _WWE-style. He brought the chair down on him five more times before tossing it aside, panting with exertion.

Moaning in pain, Francis still had the gall, bruised and bloodied as he was, to lift up a hand and squeeze Arthur's ass, at which point the irate Englishman began to strangle him while pounding his head against the floor of the stage and screaming every curse in the English language and even a few in Gaelic.

While Arthur manually cut off Francis' oxygen supply, Emil was having an odd conversation with the 9-11 operator.

"Er...Yes, this is Emil," he said confusedly. "How the hell do you know my name? My number is unlisted." He paused, amethyst eyes widening. "_Lukas? _You're a 9-11 emergency operator?" Emil coughed. "Well, _this _is awkward, to say the least." He paused and then rolled his eyes. "Look, can we discuss this later, please? Now is _really _not the time...What? No, I am **NOT** calling you Storebror!" His face flushed angrily. "Damn it, Lukas, I'm not ever going to fulfil your creepy-ass little brother fantasies, you incestuous freak! **EVER!** What the...Oh, for shit's sake, **JUST GET ME THE POLICE AND AN AMBULANCE, DAMN IT!"** Emil's pale complexion turned a brilliant shade of magenta at Lukas' next statement. "What do you mean you won't send anyone over until I agree to go out to dinner with you? **YOU CAN'T DO THAT!" **He screeched. Breathing heavily, he nearly slammed the phone onto the counter but was stopped by an interesting proposal from Lukas. "A threesome with the crazy Belarusian chick next Wednesday? Hm...I'll think about it. Now can you _please _send the cops over? Okay, thanks. Uh...Yeah, sure...Are you freaking serious? That's it, I'm hanging up now. Bæ."

Flipping his cell phone shut, Emil shoved it into the pocket of his jeans before turning around towards Arthur, who had stopped choking Francis and had instead settled for hog-tying him with some electrical wiring that he'd torn out of the wall.

"The cops should be here in ten minutes," he said. "Nice knot-work, by the way."

"Thanks," Arthur said, wiping his brow. "I've won a few knot tying competitions in my day," he added.

"Oh? Hey, did you know that this guy's a convicted sex offender?" Emil said in the casual tone that one might take when discussing the weather.

Arthur whistled lowly. "No fooling? Well, can't say that I'm surprised."

"Yeah, I looked him up on my iPad while I was talking to the 9-11 operator. Francis Bonnefoy: wanted in fourteen states on charges of groping, soliciting prostitutes, indecent exposure, sexual harassment, and something called obsessive relational intrusion."

"Is he a rapist?" Arthur asked. He looked as though he would like nothing more than to stomp the unconscious Francis' balls into paste beneath his shoes.

Emil shoved his hands into his pockets and shook his head. "Nah. More like a pansexual nymphomaniac who just doesn't know when to quit," he said.

Before they could discuss the matter any further, their conversation was interrupted by the shriek of a siren. "Oh look, the cops are here." Emil squinted. "And the ambulance, too."

He shook his head as he and Arthur were questioned by a tall, bespectacled police officer whose face seemed to be permanently fixed in a death glare while Francis, who had just regained consciousness, took the opportunity to grope one of the EMTs who was carting him away on a stretcher.

"Man, what a crazy night," Emil muttered.

"Eh, I've had crazier," Officer Oxenstierna mumbled in his thick Swedish accent.

"Really? Pray tell," Arthur drawled disbelievingly.

"Ja. I once woke up in the middle of a ten-way orgy that included two rodeo clowns and a giraffe. Had no idea how I got there. We were all covered in barbecue sauce and I was being serviced by two men, two women and the giraffe." He sighed wistfully. "Best and craziest night of my life."

Arthur and Emil stared at him in shock with their mouths hanging open to nearly the floor.

"...You win," Emil said quietly.

"Indeed," Arthur murmured and then threw up all over the floor.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or Avenue Q. I do, however, have family members who have torn up and thrown away their jury duty summons, which is the subject of this next song. As for me...I actually took my civic duty to heart and went when I was summoned in June 2011 just so that I could troll the judge and attorneys giving me the voir dire by giving increasingly rude and at times nonsensical answers until they gave up and dismissed me. And then my father died nine days later. True story. Anyway, be prepared for the groin-punch that is Japan and North Italy's interpretation of Kate and Nicky's "Tear It Up and Throw It Away!"**

Down in the post room of his apartment building, Kiku shuffled haphazardly through his mail. "Verizon FIOS bill, hentai website bill, D-Cup Honey's pay-per-view porno bill...**JURY DUTY**?' He exclaimed. Eyes sliding down to the bottom of the official-looking document, he saw to his immense horror that he was expected to be at City Hall on September 21, 2012.

Kiku gaped at the paper and his hands began to tremble. "But...That's when Feliciano and I go to the Rochester Sci-Fi and Anime convention!" He wailed, causing several people to stare at him. He blushed slightly before forcing his face back into its default expression. Had to keep up the image of the Inscrutable Asian, after all. Keep whitey on his toes about the soon-to-some Asian Invasion, you know?

Sighing, he tucked his mail under his arm and shuffled over towards the lift, stabbed the up button with his finger and waited dejectedly for it to arrive and take him up to the fourth floor so that he could sob in the privacy of his apartment.

When the elevator arrived with its characteristic _ding_, Kiku stepped inside, pressed the fourth floor button and settled himself in the corner, mulling over his shitty luck. Much to his annoyance, (he _really_ needed to cry) the elevator stopped at the second floor rather than the fourth, opening its doors to admit his roommate Feliciano, who was holding a laundry hamper full of freshly washed clothes.

"Ciao Kiku!" Feliciano said. "Look, I washed your clothes, too! See?" The cheery Italian held up a pair of the Japanese man's Hello Kitty-printed boxers before rubbing them against his face. "Ve, they're nice and warm from the dryer!"

Red-faced, Kiku snatched his undershorts from Feliciano's hand and stuffed them into the pocket of his jacket. "Damn it Feliciano, stop rubbing my boxers against your face," he snapped. "What if someone sees?" He added.

Feliciano cocked his head to the side and smiled his closed-eyed smile, fly-away curl bobbing. "Okay. I don't see why, but okey-dokey. So, are you excited for the Rochester Sci-Fi and Anime Convention? I can't wait," he continued, oblivious to the tears gathering in the corners of his friend's eyes, "I'm going to go dressed as Sailor Chibi Moon! I've got the pink wig and everything! You're going as Yoko Littner from Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann, right?"

Unable to contain his sorrow anymore, Kiku burst into tears, grabbing Feliciano by the collar of his shirt and violently shaking him until his teeth rattled. "I can't go, you mentally deficient, noodle-slurping greaseball!" He screamed, not-so-manly tears streaming down his face. "Those sadistic government motherfuckers sent me a summons for jury duty on the exact day of the convention and now I can't go! Do you know how long it took me to find leather hot pants and a flame-patterned bikini top? **DO YOU?"**

"Ve...Four solid days desperately clicking on eBay?" Feliciano guessed.

"**EXACTLY!**" Kiku sobbed. "All that work...And **FOR NOTHING! **I won't even be able to wear them...He whimpered.

"Sure you can! The gay pride parade will be coming through Manhattan before you know it!" Feliciano quipped.

"Haha, hilarious. I'm serious. My life is over!" Kiku sobbed. "**OVER!**"

Feliciano looked around, frowning at the fact that they hadn't yet arrived at the fourth floor. "We've been talking for an awful long time...I think the elevator's stuck."

Kiku began to bang his head against the wall while Feliciano desperately pressed the emergency button. "And now we're stuck in the elevator," he muttered. "Fuck me...!"

"Ve, not now," Feliciano said, slumping against the opposite wall. "I'll do it when we're back in the apartment. Even though it looks like we're going to be stuck in here for a while...Hey, about you not being able to go to the convention? You know that you don't _have _to go to jury duty, right?" He said out of the blue.

Kiku, who now had a sizeable bruise on his forehead from where he had been hitting it against the wall turned to look at him. "Uhm, yes I do." He waved the paper detailing his jury duty injunction in his friends' face. "I got this summons in the mail. I _have _to go." _Dumbass_, he thought.

Feliciano simply smiled. "_What _summons?" He said.

Feeling his blood pressure begin to rise at the other man's obliviousness, Kiku rolled the paper up and smacked him upside the head with it. "_This _one, baka."

"Noooo. _What _summons?" Feliciano repeated.

Kiku stared at him in amazement that anyone could be so stupid without having been lobotomized. "The one in my fucking hand!" He shouted incredulously.

"No, Kiku, what I mean is this: Tear it up and throw it away." Feliciano said calmly, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"...Huh?" Kiku deadpanned. Then he rolled his eyes. "Please don't tell me you're going to start singing. Everyone's been randomly bursting into song for the past two days and it's driving me in-

He was too late, for Feliciano had jumped to his feet and started singing while doing a spastic dance that looked like a bizarre combination between the Caramelldansen and the Cat Daddy. Kiku wondered if he was dancing or having an epileptic fit.

"Throw it away, Throw it away! Tear that shit up and throw it away!"

"And go about your day!" Feliciano sang.

Kiku stared at him in horror. "I can't do that!" He gasped. "This an _official _summons," he added, his voice caressing the word official as though it were his lover. A.k.a. his Yoko Littner body pillow. Hey, don't be judging his hardcore otaku-ness bitches.

"Oh? An _official _summons, ve? Well, in that case: Tear it up and throw it away!" Feliciano continued.

"Just...tear it up?" Kiku asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. It _was _a rather appealing idea...

"Yup!" Feliciano warbled. "And throw it away! Tear that shit up and throw it away so that you and I can go play!"

Kiku blinked. "Play?" He said bemusedly. "I thought you were talking about going to the convention, not having sex. And besides...I thought it was my civic duty to attend jury duty when summoned?"

"Hey, if we're lucky, we can do both while we're there! And pfft, fuck civic duty!" Feliciano said laughingly. "Ve, where was I...Oh! The government employees already know,"

"That for many reasons many people just won't show."

"After all, a piece of mail's an easy thing to overlook, so just like the airlines, they overbook!"

"Hm...Well, in that case," Kiku mumbled.

"Tear it up and throw it away! Throw it away! Throw it away! Tear that shit up and throw it away!" He sang along with Feliciano.

"You see? It's perfectly okay!" Feliciano added.

On a whim, Kiku re-read his jury duty summons, his eyes widening when he got to a certain section. "No, I can't!" He cried. "I can't just tear it up and throw it away! It-it says here that the penalty for not showing up to jury duty is thirty days _in jail_! I _can't_ go to jail! Do you know what they do to guys like me in jail?" He whimpered, imagining himself having a set of tits tattooed on his back by some enormously muscled black man named Bubba with a monstrously oversized dong who would rename him Tiffany and make him into his unwilling mistress after buying him from an Aryan brotherhood member for some Jolly ranchers and a pack of Pall Malls.

However, Feliciano just laughed. "Ve, you'd be passed around like currency until your anus was the size of a grapefruit!" He began to sing again. "But don't worry; no one's ever actually gone to jail for that! Have you ever heard of anyone going to jail-

"For something that got _lost in the mail_!" Kiku cried out in a eureka-voice. "I never thought I'd say this but Feliciano, you're a genius!"

"Exactly! And just for the record, I have many layers. Like an onion. Some are just stupider than others," Feliciano explained. "Now c'mon Kiku, let's finish this song!"

Throwing their arms about each other, they belted out,"

"Tear it up and throw it away! Throw it away! Throw it away!"

"Just tear it up and throw it away!"

When he finished the verse, Kiku proceeded to rip his jury duty summons into tiny shreds with an oddly sadistic look on his face before tossing the paper scraps up into the air, laughing a high-pitched giggle that could only be produced by someone who had momentarily flipped their shit as the tattered fragments of what was once his court order rained down on him and Feliciano like confetti.

However, Feliciano was completely unperturbed by his psychotic behaviour. "Ve! That's the spirit!" He shouted as he made a scrap paper angel on the floor of the lift. "You got it!"

"Oh no I didn't!" Kiku laughed.

"Haha. Right!" Feliciano said.

"Now I can just go about my day!" Kiku sang.

"Because only losers do jury duty!" Feliciano added.

Kiku closed his eyes contentedly and leaned back. "Well, that's a relief. Too bad we're still stuck in the elevator though..."

Inspired, Feliciano jumped up. "Not for long!" He declared and in a fit of strength brought on by both inspiration and the fact that he'd accidentally purchased psychotropic mushrooms from a shady-looking Dutch guy in a back alley thinking that he was a local farmer and selling Portobello's and cooked them into his morning fusilli, he pried apart the elevator doors.

"..._Kickass_," Kiku said, astonished.

Feliciano gestured grandly toward the now opened doors. "C'mon, let's get outta this shithole Kiku!" He declared before stepping out onto the air and plummeting two floors down the elevator shaft, landing with a thud onto the concrete floor of the basement. Oops.

Kiku crawled over and stuck his head over the edge of the elevator. "Feliciano?" He shouted worriedly. "Are you all right?"

"Ve, I'm okay," he called back faintly. "I landed on my head! Fratello's always saying that I've got a thick skull," he added. "But there's still a lot of blood...Can you call an ambulance?"

As he pulled out his cell phone to call the fire department and some paramedics, Kiku smiled. "At least I get to go to the Sci-Fi and anime convention!" He said happily. "Fuck you jury duty!"


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: Thirteen days since I last updated and no, this hiatus doesn't mean that I was prepping to write a really awesome chapter. In fact, this one might just be the worst of the bunch. Oh well. Here's the Money Song as performed by America and Spain.**

Alfred lay curled up in a cardboard box on the corner of Essex Street, an empty beer bottle clenched in his hand and looking worse for the wear. His trademark bomber jacket was ripped and covered in stains, his jeans had patches on the knees and a huge rip on his ass that showed off the fact that he was down to his last pair of (unwashed) boxers, the right lens of his glasses was cracked, and he was only wearing one shoe, revealing that his formerly white socks had turned black with age and lack of cleaning and that his left big toe was sticking out through a hole in the cotton. He was even wearing one of those loose-fitting pull-over hats usually reserved for crackheads and had a serious case of five o' clock shadow going on. All in all, Alfred had definitely seen better days. Alas, his comedy club had gone down the crapper and his constant mockery of the health and sanitation department every time they issued him warnings and fines certainly hadn't helped him to keep it afloat. So, here he was, a down on his luck New York City hobo living off of the kindness of strangers.

Too bad the vast majority of New Yorkers were assholes. So far today, he'd been passed by six people, all of whom had various reactions to his plight. The short dark-haired Italian guy and the tall blonde Terminator-esque German man had literally skipped across the street towards him only to point and laugh while saying some Nazi shit about Schadenfreude. They had then proceeded to make out heavily in front of him for ten minutes, their groping and kissing growing more frenzied until the foul-mouthed Italian began to fumble with the German guy's belt buckle while the tall blonde fisted the other man's hair, at which point a disgusted Alfred proceeded to relocate his box-house further down the block, away from their... enthusiasm. He may have been a hobo, but he still wanted to keep the last remaining vestiges of his dignity, and having a sadomasochistic couple who got off on the sorrow of others fuck on top of him definitely wasn't dignified.

Unfortunately, the sadistic sons of bitches actually followed him down the street so that the Italian could sit beside him, put on a pair of hipster glasses and do the Thinker pose while his German boyfriend took several pictures with his phone before gathering up the smaller man in his arms and shoving him up against the wall of a nearby building. They began to make out and fumble with each other's clothes _again_ and Alfred, unable to take any more of it, threw himself at the two of them and opened up a family-sized can of whoopass on the horny sadists, repeatedly whacking them with bags full of crumpled burger wrappers and his faeces while shouting how _they _liked being the ones to suffer while douchebags laughed. Being a stereotypical coward and neat freak respectively, they couldn't take too much of being waylaid with sacks of shit and instead threw their wallets at him before running into a nearby taxi and speeding away. Irritating, yes, but he'd managed to score five hundred bucks and a condom from the two jerks. (The money would fund him with more McDonalds and maybe a fresh set of drawers and the condom would make an interesting hat.)

The next people to pass him were a red-eyed albino guy with an annoying hiss of a laugh that he just wouldn't shut the hell up with and a pretty girl with long golden-brown hair and an annoyed expression who whipped out a huge skillet and bashed the man across the head with it while snarling at him to be quiet. The albino, whose name was Gilbert according to what the girl shouted, rubbed at the large bump forming on his scalp and called her a bitch, at which his girlfriend flew at him like a wrecking ball made of pure fury, enveloping the two of them in a cartoonish dust cloud. For a few minutes, all Alfred could hear were grotesque cracking noises and fleshy thumps and then, the guy was lying in an unconscious heap on the street, formerly white hair dripping red and his face reduced to a puffy caricature of what it once was. Alfred inwardly cringed and hoped that the guy could afford to spare a few pints of blood while simultaneously lauding the woman's fighting prowess. The golden-haired girl turned towards him and expecting an asskicking, Alfred covered his face and prayed that she wouldn't go for his balls first. However, she merely smiled at him and placed a ten dollar bill in his empty McDonalds soda cup before hauling her boyfriend to his feet and dragging him away, presumably to the nearest hospital. So, that one had ended well for him (not so much for the other guy though, who looked like he had a concussion) and sort of restored his hope in humanity.

The next incident was...strange, to put it mildly. And highly disturbing. It was what once again destroyed his faith in humans, in fact. Alfred had been lounging in his cardboard box, admitting to himself that it wasn't too bad to sit around all day and bum money off of strangers when a scarily tall, stony-faced guy with a scar across his forehead, spiky hair and a long scarf looped around his neck stepped in front of him, glaring. And glaring. And glaring. And glaring some more. Alfred was beginning to wonder if he was going to be the next homeless man featured on the ten o' clock news for being brutally murdered by a random thug when the man grunted at him that he was on his turf and to get his ass to another street unless he wanted to eat the sidewalk.

Alfred gulped. "Look Mr. Drug Dealer, I'll just go, I swear. Just don't curb stomp me!" He began. To his amazement, the man turned around at the sound of approaching footsteps. Alfred turned as well, and saw two girls walking down the street. They were both short in the extreme, and looked quite similar to one another but for the fact that one was very er, well-developed and had long reddish hair, round glasses, and an impassive expression while the other was more modestly endowed and had dark brown hair cut into a shoulder-length bob and a huge smile on her face. The two of them were wearing what Alfred assumed to be school uniforms: red-plaid pinafore dresses over white button-down shirts and black ties, thigh-length white socks, black Mary-Jane shoes. The darker-haired girl tugged at her friends arm upon catching sight of the tall spiky-haired man and whispered something, the smile slipping off of her face while the other girl's previous blank expression turned into a scowl.

Alfred scratched his head, wondering why they were reacting so badly. And then he caught a glimpse of the guy's face, which could only be described as creepy with a dash of molester. _Woah, dude looks kinda like Pedobear_, Alfred thought. The one with the glasses and the long hair pulled her arm free from her friend's grasp and stepped up towards the drug dealer, giving him a look that promised severe injury. "Shit's about to get real," Alfred mumbled quietly, wishing that he had a bucket of popcorn with him.

The girl crossed her arms across her impressive chest and glared. "What the fuck are _you _doing here, Lars?" She spat. "Lailani and I are trying to go home, so move your pasty ass aside before I introduce it to my foot, bastardo."

Lars simply smiled. Then again, Alfred would've done the same if he were the one being threatened by a teenage girl who just barely scraped past meeting the height requirement to be certified as a legal midget. "I'd rather you not do that. But, _I _have something that I'd like to introduce to the two of you," he said, placing a hand on each of their shoulders. That was the wrong thing to do.

Letting out a noise that could only be described as something between a screech and a roar, the girl grabbed Lars by the wrist, heaved him up into the air, threw him and for good measure round-house kicked him several meters down the street. The girl with the bobbed hair then walked up to him and finished the job by kicking him in the nuts, eliciting a horrible cracking sound that echoed down the street and caused Alfred to clutch at his own junk in sympathy. "I don't know whether that was referring to your dick or drugs. Either way, we're not interested, perv," she said, linking arms with the other girl. "C'mon Cat, let's go." The two of them marched away, whacking the semi-conscious Lars with their schoolbags for good measure while Alfred looked on in stupefied amazement at the insanity of New York City.

Eventually, the drug dealing ephebophile had shaken himself off and limped away, muttering something about showing up at the high school bright and early tomorrow morning to scope out the premises. Alfred shook his head. "Dude needs to go for women his own age. Fifteen will get you twenty." Then he shrugged. "Can't say I blame him though," he admitted. "Freshly developed boobs are the best." He leaned back and stretched his arms over his head, ready to take a pre-Big Mac nap when he spotted a cheerful-looking man with dark, wavy hair and bright green eyes bouncing down the street.

Alfred immediately began to crack up. "Haha, dude runs like Scott Evil!" He paused, blue eyes brightening. "A guy that retarded happy will _definitely _give me some money!" He began to wave his hand wildly. "Hey, hey you, smiley guy! Help the homeless! Help the homeless!" Alfred's eye began to twitch when the man began to run circles in his odd, flamboyant manner around his box-house rather than heeding his request. "**I SAID HELP THE HOMELESS BY GIVING ME A QUARTER, NOT BY DANCING LIKE A FAIRY AROUND MY HOUSE!" **He shouted.

The man stopped, cocking his head at him curiously. "Hola stranger, I'm Antonio. What were you yelling about just now? I couldn't hear you because I was too busy trying to ignore the horrible smells wafting around. Do you know what the source of the stink is, amigo?"

"It's probably me," Alfred said matter-of-factly. "And since hardly anyone is listening to me when I talk, maybe you'll listen to me if I sing," he added. "God, I hate singing," he added, frowning.

Antonio began to clap happily. "Ooh, a song! I wish I'd brought my guitar!" He sighed wistfully and plopped himself beside Alfred. Sniffing the air, he smiled widely. "Si, that smell is definitely you, amigo! I recommend Febreze. Seriously, it's muy malo."

"And I recommend you shutting the hell up and letting me get on with my song before I go muy malo upside your head," Alfred said.

The Spaniard smiled and shrugged, oblivious to the threat. "Okey-dokey."

Alfred cleared his throat, stood up and attempted to flatten his hair down in an attempt to look somewhat presentable, which was pointless considering the fact that he was a raggedy-ass hobo who hadn't bathed in days. But whatever. Pointedly ignoring his own odour, which was indeed very offensive, he proceeded to sing.

"Give me a quarter,"

"Here in my hat!" He tore the condom out of its foil packaging and waved it around like some sort of bizarre latex flag.

"Come on, Smiley,"

"It's as easy as that!"

"Helping others brings you closer to God,"

"So for real, give me a freaking quarter before I shank you."

Antonio scratched his head curiously. "Uhm...That's a funny-looking hat." He wrinkled his nose. "Why is it all sticky and smell like sausage?"

Frowning, Alfred held it up to his nose and sniffed it. "Ew! Who the fuck uses wurst-flavoured condoms?" He shrieked, tossing it aside disgustedly and wiping his hands across his jeans.

"Wow, wearing that gives new meaning to the term pork sword!" Antonio exclaimed. "Maybe Emma will forgive me if I use one of those...Oh yeah, I don't have any change," he added, looking rueful.

Alfred shrugged. "Hm...Okay. Gimme a dollar!" He sang.

"That's not what I meant," Antonio began.

"Then gimme a five," Alfred trilled.

Antonio raised his eyebrows. "Are you kidding?"

"The more you give,"

"The more you get."

"That's being alive!"

"All I'm asking you,"

"Is to do what"

"Jesus Christ would do."

"He'd give me a quarter,"

"Why don't you?" Alfred sang/demanded.

Antonio sighed. "Well, Jésus Cristo is muy bueno, so fine." He fished around in the pocket of his pants and found a quarter, which he tossed into Alfred's soda cup. "Here you go."

"Ah, thanks!" Alfred said happily. _Sucker_, he thought.

Antonio began to walk away. "Take care," he said, waving. He came to an abrupt halt in mid-step, an elated expression on his face. He looked as though he had seen the face of Jesus Himself and been bathed in the effervescent glow of His holy light. Or he was experiencing the after-effects of a powerful hallucinogen. "Ay Dios Mio!" Antonio exclaimed, his eyes full of wonder.

Alfred began to inch away from the apparently tripping man. "Uh...What's the matter?" He asked cautiously.

Antonio placed his hand over his heart, strange expression still pasted across his face. His lips quirked up and he began to twirl around in circles like a ballerina.

"I feel generous!"

"I feel compassionate!" Antonio warbled, sounding rather like a Disney Princess coaxing woodland animals to assist with menial household chores. Alfred was surprised that pigeons and sewer rats didn't come over and start dancing while wearing little top hats.

"Oh," he said. "Seriously?"

"Si!" Antonio chirped.

"I feel like a new person-A GOOD person!"

"Helping others out makes you feel fantastic!" He exclaimed joyously.

"Uh, that's what I said earlier," Alfred said. "Are you sure you're feeling okay? You haven't mixed alcohol with pills or something, right? 'Cus you seem like you're tripping total balls right now..."

Antonio continued on with his epiphany, unaware of Alfred's consternation.

"All this time I've been running around thinking,"

"About me, me, me - and where has it gotten me?!"

"I'm gonna do something for someone else!"

"Me?" Alfred said hopefully.

"No! My girlfriend Emma!" Antonio sighed dreamily.

"I'm going to raise the money to help her build that stupid waffle and chocolate making school she's always talking about!" He began to eye Alfred's cup full of cash. "Give me your money!" He cried, making a mad dash for it.

Alfred quickly snatched up the cup and held it over his head. "What the fucking what?" He shouted furiously.

"I need it for Emma!" Antonio pleaded.

"Yeah well, tough tits. I need it to eat!" Alfred snapped.

"Come on, Mr. Hobo!" Antonio cajoled.

"Eh, fuck off," Alfred said, waving his hand lazily. "Go on, take a hike."

"It'll make you feel great," Antonio attempted, waggling his eyebrows as though he was propositioning Alfred for sex.

"So would a cheeseburger," Alfred said tonelessly.

Antonio decided to change tactics.

"When her dream comes true,"

"It'll all be partly,"

"Thanks to you!"

"So give me your money!" He beg-sang.

Alfred looked at him incredulously. "I'd like to, but I really can't."

"Give your money!" Antonio implored.

"Dude, you are skull-fucking insane. I'm only going to do this once," Alfred said. He began to sing as well.

"I'd like to, but I'm homeless!"

"I can't! I need it! I'm homeless!"

"I'd give it to you for your retarded plan, but I'm GODDAM HOMELESS!"

"You want to take my money to build your bitch a school, but see, here's the thing: **I'M HOMELESS, YOU DIPSHIT!"**

"Who the hell takes money from a homeless person?"

"You want to get laid so bad, use your own cash!"

"Now get away from my box!"

With that, Alfred picked up his trusty bags of crap and garbage and swung them at Antonio's head, who ducked and took the opportunity to snatch his money-cup, which he had foolishly put down on the sidewalk.

Running down the street in a lurid flailing of his arms and feet, Antonio called "Don't worry amigo, when we build that school, I'll remember and reimburse you, I swear!"

Cursing, Alfred threw down his cardboard box/house and proceeded to trample it into the ground. "Son of a bitch!" He screamed. "I will have my revenge, you paella-pissing, flamenco-dancing dick-muncher! **REVENGE, I SAY!**"

**A/N: Man, I tormented one of my favourite characters today. But don't worry folks, Alfred got reimbursed three months later and is now living in a hand-shaped mansion, where he spends the majority of his time in the thumb and middle finger sections.**


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